Chapter Text
Inhale.
“Quiet please.”
Exhale.
“Players ready?”
Crave.
“Play.”
Devour.
There is a buzz that comes with it; the second before a game, a set, a match. The second before the ball is thrown—when Shouyou himself is not yet airborne. The second before the hit—when he breathes it through, breathes it out, pumps everything into his serve as if his exhale may infuse the ball with his energy.
The second before the storm.
There is calm.
Inhale. Exhale. Crave. Devour.
Shouyou knows many people, and many people know him—know of him. He supposes he is hard to miss; hair bright and smile brighter as he weaves through crowds like he does the rankings. Easy, breathtaking, enjoying every second of the ride, seeking every thrill that he can.
Shouyou knows that he’s magnetic. He would never brag about it, but it’s just… easy to him, easy to see, easy to draw others into his orbit and let them fuel his joy, fuel his hunger, fuel his fire.
He likes it that way. He likes knowing that there are people to surround himself with; that there are fans who will follow him wherever he goes, friends who celebrate his wins and help him cope with his losses, family who look out for him no matter what he does.
He knows that he has a support system. He knows that he is lucky in that way. He knows that he needs them. He knows that he loves them.
But Shouyou also knows this: knows that the second he steps within those lines, he is completely and utterly alone.
See, tennis is special in that regard—a sport like no other. It is lonely—just you, your body and your mind up against giants however big you make them out to be.
A game can turn on a dime, change like the tides, fall out from under you like a trap door leading to defeat. One moment you’re winning: 40-0, match points one and two and three. Then you blink. You miss a second, maybe less so, and those match points are gone. You’re stuck at a stalemate, an impasse, a deuce.
And all you have to blame is yourself.
You do, blame yourself. You get in your head. You beat yourself up over missed shots, unforced errors, slips of the mind more than the body because you have trained your body beyond perfection.
You worry, get frustrated, get distracted. And while you do, tennis goes on. With or without you. Point for point, until a game is won, then two, then four, then six. A set, and another, and before you know it the match is over. Victory slipped through your fingers like the finest of sands.
The loss is on you and you alone. No coach. No partner. No team. You.
Tennis is a lonely sport, especially at the top. See, everyone is good, their techniques near flawless and weapons honed to perfection, they wouldn’t be playing these tournaments if they weren’t. No, what makes the greats great is what goes beyond that. It is their drive, their passion, their ability to cope with blow after blow after blow.
It is their mentality, more than anything else.
So now, in that second before all hell breaks loose, Shouyou does what he can to hold on to his sanity. He inhales, he exhales, he craves.
He will devour.
✯
✯
“Shouyou, you just played an amazing match—going up against the world number five and coming out on top, it’s truly an incredible feat.”
Shouyou smiles, tired, aching, but exuberantly happy all the same. He nods his head, lets the words sink in as his smile stretches into a wide grin, and waits for the crowd to settle down.
Maybe once they stop their cheering his legs will no longer feel like lead.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, though it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. He knows the procedures though, especially strict at a tournament like this. The only tournament like this.
See, they’re all different; special in their own ways like only the four most important stops on the tour can be. And maybe it’s the fact that it’s the first Grand Slam of the season, or maybe it’s something else, but there’s something about the hot Australian summer that sets this Slam apart, cements it as Shouyou’s favorite tournament of all.
He revels in all of it, no matter how many players he’s met or how many matches he’s won. Regardless, there is one thing that he can never quite get used to.
“I can’t even—”
The crowd roars; the woman in charge of his interview laughs. Shouyou can only shake his head in disbelief, because this— this support, this frenzy sparking in the air, all for him—this is what happens if he wins, when he wins.
This is his life, and it is utterly bizarre.
He takes a breath, one that burns his lungs from the inside out, and then another. He’s grateful for the support, yes, but he may be even more grateful for the cover it provides; the sliver of a second that allows him to catch his breath.
Once he feels less like a walking fire and more like a man, he starts to speak again.
“I can’t even believe what just happened,” he says, a disbelieving chuckle on his lips. “Kourai is an amazing player, obviously—he wouldn’t be the world number five if he wasn’t.”
The crowd laughs again, and Shouyou takes it as his cue to breathe some more, though he doesn’t allow himself much reprieve.
“I’ve been looking up to him since I first saw him play in the junior leagues,” he continues. Bashful, playful, perfect for both his opponent’s fans and his own. “And now look at us! Playing the biggest tournaments in the world and winning.”
He shakes his head, wild ginger curls falling in his eyes now that he’s removed his cap. He’s soaking it all in as the woman picks up his slack, sending him a mischievous look as she speaks.
“Well you’ve certainly won the people over tonight. Wow, what an insane crowd!”
It’s a clear invitation, one that the raucous Australian masses gladly take as the hooting starts back up again. Shouyou thinks he hears someone scream for his sweaty shirt somewhere in the distance and has to suppress a snort at the thought. Instead, he grins widely, wholly, wildly, and yells back to the people in the stands.
He can’t help it—it’s fun, a holler of excitement as much as relief that he’s survived another match. This is why people know him—know of him; he celebrates every match with the people that cheered him on, whether that’s no one but his coach or every person in a jam-packed stadium, Shouyou cheers back with all the energy he has left.
He can hear it now, chants of his own name as he waves his tired arms at the crowd, and knows that while the interviewer has an amused smile on her face, he’s going to have to wrap it up soon lest he cause a delay in the programme.
It’s happened before.
He grins at the woman, sends her a quick nod, and lets her take the moment back. She smiles at him gratefully before addressing him through the mic again.
“Well, I think I speak for everyone here when I say I’ve enjoyed your performance today,” the double entendre is not lost on Shouyou, “and that I wish you all the best in the rest of the tournament.”
He bows gratefully.
“Thank you so much,” he tells her before turning to the crowd. “And thank you for your support!” he continues. “I hope to see you back here soon. I’m going to need all of your loudest cheers to help me win the next one!”
And with that, the interview ends, and all that’s left for Shouyou to do is sign a million and one tennis balls, throw his sweat-soaked wristbands into the stands, and wave at the crowd as he finally leaves the court.
It’s only then that his knees buckle, that his breath stutters and his hands shake. He’s still happy, incredibly so, but fuck, he’s tired. Maybe if he begs, Atsumu will let him off the hook with only half a debrief. His coach is always—
“Well, you look like shit.”
Despite his leaden limbs, Shouyou turns quicker than he has all day, eyes roving over the near-empty corridor before quickly landing on sapphire blue. Even though he knew he’d find it, he balks at the sly smirk he sees there, half-hidden behind feigned disinterest. Luckily, Shouyou knows better than to take it at face value.
“Excuse me?” he snaps.
“You heard me. You look horrible. What, did you not sleep at all?”
Shouyou stalks forward, incensed, to poke the intruder in his ribs. “I just played Hoshiumi Kourai for four hours, asshole.” He tells him, still poking.
Warm fingers clasp around his wrist; a sly grin turns sharper.
“Yes you did,” the intruder says, then takes a step out of the shadows, crowding Shouyou up against the wall with that stupid fucking presence that’s completely unbecoming of a boy just nineteen years old; all indifferent swagger and easy confidence.
“And you look like shit.”
Shouyou sucks in a breath—a scarce, useful breath, mind you—and glares. He grabs the hand around his wrist, pries it open with his last remaining strength, and rolls his eyes. Because no matter how much he wishes he hated this little song and dance, he’s gotten so used to it over time that it has become sort of… grounding, in a way.
Not that he’ll share that thought aloud. Instead, he crosses his arms and huffs a petulant breath.
“You could at least congratulate me, buttwad.”
Kageyama Tobio stands before him, and Kageyama Tobio chuckles like a proper teenager should before shaking his head in badly concealed amusement.
“Getting creative with the insults, are we?” he laughs, then concedes when Shouyou raises an unimpressed brow. “Fine. Congratulations on beating an old man, old man.”
Against his better judgment, Shouyou sputters.
“I’m twenty-one,” he informs Kageyama indignantly, then decides that it isn’t enough to heal his wounded ego, “and Hoshiumi is only two years older than I am!”
He watches amusement flicker in Kageyama’s eyes and hates himself for the way his own lips curl up in a smile.
“Exactly,” Kageyama says, brattish as he cocks a confident brow. “Twenty-three, and almost past his prime.”
Shouyou shakes his head, a disbelieving breath forcing itself out as he watches disdain flicker over Kageyama’s features.
“Kourai is your friend,” he reminds him.
The carefree air surrounding Kageyama dissipates in an instant. It is replaced by hard-set eyes and a foully twisted snarl. “Kourai is a training partner,” Kageyama corrects. “He is replaceable. They’re all replaceable.”
His voice drops low on that last part, so much so that Shouyou does not think that he was meant to hear it. As it stands though, he does, and he hears more than just the bitterness of the words themselves. Something like misplaced hurt whistling through the air until it whips Shouyou harshly across the cheek. He sucks in a breath, takes a step back, puts just a few more centimeters between himself and the shadow before him.
Kageyama does not comment on it further.
“Your backhand was lagging,” he says instead, averting his gaze to study the blue-painted wall instead of Shouyou. Only once he deems it… whatever it is that he’s looking for, does he continue, eyes flitting from his rival back to the wall.
“You were slower halfway through the third set,” he continues. “Lost power immediately after, didn’t get it back either.”
The words sting, no matter how true they are. Shouyou’s backhand was lagging, he did become slower throughout the third set—Hoshiumi was forcing him to sprint from the baseline to the net and from the left corner to the right with maddening accuracy. He knows he lost power, he knows he was forced to make errors, he knows that it cost him valuable points.
What he does not know, however, is how Kageyama noticed all this.
“For someone claiming not to take an interest in others, you watched me rather closely, didn’t you Kageyama-kun?”
Kageyama turns around with a swift tsk that leaves Shouyou with a triumphant smile on his face. He’s a graceful person, truly, but that all vanishes when he comes face to face with the thorn in his side that is Kageyama Tobio.
Thing is, he likes riling him up, likes seeing just how many buttons he can push before Kageyama retreats from the fight—one that he starts, more often than not. Shouyou likes the flush that rises on his cheeks, the furrow that nestles itself between his brow, the contemplation that hardens his eyes into something of determination that next time, he’ll get him.
Even after the last few months, he still doesn’t seem to realize that Shouyou’s too quick to get caught.
“Make sure to survive the next round,” Kageyama warns, back turned to him as he strides towards the exit. “It won’t be as satisfying to watch someone else beat you for me.”
Shouyou laughs, a competitive fire running down his spine, lighting up his aching bones until they spark right back to life.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, then shouts after his rival. “Keep watching, asshat! You might learn something new.”
Kageyama does not respond, just keeps making his way towards the players tunnel. Shouyou watches him with the same intensity he always does, because apparently this boy is just as magnetic as he is himself, and nods his head at the comfortable confidence he finds.
Kageyama is about to obliterate his opponent.
✯
While Shouyou does not make it a habit to scream in agony, he is rather close now. He can’t tell you why, but something about riding a stationary bike after putting his body through hell for four hours does something to dampen his inhibitions.
“Come on, Shou-kun, stop bein’ such a wuss.”
Contrarily, something about his coach’s voice makes determination flare in his body. Shouyou puffs out a breath, keeps slowly pumping the wheels around, feels the slow, comforting burn that travels through his legs and embraces it readily.
He hears a proud chuckle. “That’s my boy.”
Atsumu stands before him, bleached hair half-hidden under his cap, dangerous grin lighting up his face. Shouyou grins back, with less force than he thought it would take, and waits for his coach to start grilling him about the match.
“Now,” Atsumu says, clapping a hand on Shouyou’s sweat-drenched back, “I’m gonna start by congratulating you, you absolute madman.”
There’s more to that sentence, Shouyou knows. Something that starts with a ‘but’.
“But…” Shouyou is somewhat of a genius, “you played the crowd better than you played your tennis in that fourth set. Care to tell me what that was about?”
Shouyou grumbles, used to Atsumu pointing out his own flaws but still hopelessly annoyed by it. Atsumu is not satisfied. He crosses his arms and cocks a brow, silently waiting for his player to continue.
“My backhand was lagging,” Shouyou recounts. “I lost power from the third set onwards because Hoshiumi was driving me insane with those dropshots.”
“Not just driving ya insane…”
“Driving me out of my comfort zone,” Shouyou corrects, frowning as he remembers the match; the thrill of good tennis, the frustration of lost points and the finest details of the game. “He made me run until my legs felt like lead,” he decides, “and then I lost power.”
Atsumu nods at him, satisfied, then grins again. “I knew there was more to ya than just a pretty face and some fancy-schmancy tennis skills.”
Shouyou shakes his head at him with a snort, far too used to his antics by now to be thrown off by them. Atsumu winks at him playfully before continuing.
“You’re close, Shou-kun. So spell it out for yourself, what happened?”
“I got tired,” Shouyou starts slowly, working the mechanics out in his head. “I got tired and it made me sloppy. I got to the ball too slow, I hit it too late, and I couldn’t put my full power into my swing because I was forced to spend so much energy on just running around.”
This time, the pride in Atsumu’s smirk is filled with a challenge, a ‘so what are you going to do about it?’
“We need to up the interval training,” Shouyou tells him. “I need to be able to keep playing at my best no matter how much my opponent pushes me around.”
“There ya go,” Atsumu says, then underlines something in his notebook. “That’s exactly what I was thinkin’.”
He smirks, then closes his notebook. Shouyou is about to ask him how long of his cool-down he has left when Atsumu beats him to the punch.
“Five more minutes on the bike,” he tells him. “Then off to the ice-baths—Yachi should be getting those ready for ya as we speak. I want you showered and fed at 6:30 pm sharp for the final debrief, yeah?”
Shouyou gulps. No matter how often he has gone through this routine, the sheer intensity of it is still dizzying. Only when he breathes his assent does Atsumu go on.
“As for the evening,” he continues, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “We should find out who your next opponent is before our final meeting today. And I know you’re going to be excited no matter who pulls through, but please make sure to be in bed by nine-thirty.”
Shouyou nods again. “Aye aye captain,” he jokes, wheels still spinning.
Atsumu nods back, sends him another smile—smaller, more sincere—and goes to take his leave, a regular break in their routine where Atsumu leaves Shouyou for the final five minutes of his cool-down to fetch him an electrolyte drink. Before he vanishes from the corridor though, he squeezes Shouyou’s arm quickly.
“Good job today, kid,” he says. “Let’s make sure you’re ready to do it all again tomorrow.”
Something like eagerness spreads through Shouyou like a fire. Tomorrow. He gets to do it all again tomorrow.
“Yeah,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Let’s smash it.”
✯
“Keep breathing, Hinata-kun.”
It’s solid advice, kindly delivered and generally easy to follow. Except ice seeps into Shouyou’s veins and it takes him all his concentration not to suck in a breath and keep it there to warm his freezing chest. He is nothing if not stubborn though, and so Shouyou breathes as deeply as he can, lowering himself up to his neck in the icy water.
“That’s good,” Yachi tells him, then grins. “Much cooler than winning a match, isn’t it?”
Shouyou snorts a laugh, ignoring her pun to stutter a quip of his own. “Don’t g-go overselling i-ice-baths now.”
His physical therapist shakes her head, still grinning. “It’s not me selling them.” she says. “It’s science!” Then she raises her brow sternly, too tuned into Shouyou’s moods to let them run rampant. “Now hush and concentrate. This is supposed to relax your body, not give you cramps from laughing too hard.”
Shouyou nods dutifully and motions for his lips to be sealed. He hunkers down, breathing in deeply through his nose before blowing the hot air out of his mouth, and feels his muscles go lax.
Five more minutes. Five more minutes and he’ll be back on his feet, ready to towel himself dry, bid Yachi a good night, and drag himself to the showers—warm, but not scalding—to decompress further. He’s already thinking about the meal that’ll be waiting for him in the hotel: steamed carrots and tomatoes, grilled salmon, sweet potato mash—nutritious but not too heavy on his stomach. Perfect.
He’ll have a final debrief with Atsumu after; talk the match through now that he’s had time to let the victory settle, now that he’s flipped through the memories in his head and has found more moments where he could have done something different, done something better.
Atsumu will have no problem guiding him there, wants to watch him succeed almost as much as Shouyou craves the success himself. They’ll make jokes in between, silly quips and sillier flirts that leave them snorting and chuckling. They’ll be serious a second later, switching up so fast that it might as well be extra training—reflexes sharp as a needle.
Shouyou will go back to his room then, pace the length of it twice, brush his teeth for exactly two minutes and ten seconds, trace the lines in the carpet with his toes to ground himself, and heave himself into his bed at precisely 7:45.
He’ll watch the other matches cocooned in his blankets, even though the Australian summer is sweltering outside. He’ll go through the highlights of his own side of the bracket to discover who he’s playing next, who he should be mindful of in the future, what he needs to do to beat them all. It’ll be preparation for tomorrow, when Atsumu is sure to go over the footage with him again.
And if after, when he’s convinced himself that he’s done enough for today, he watches the other side of the bracket more intently than is strictly warranted, then that is no one’s business but his own.
It is no one’s concern if he watches sleek black fly over the court, if he witnesses a star rising before his very eyes. If he replays the way a confident kid handles the ball, sends his opponent running with shots placed to perfection—a combination of speed and power and precision so deadly that the match ends before it ever really begins. If his stomach flutters watching a man at least twice as experienced as himself be destroyed without a shred of concern from his opponent.
If Kageyama Tobio is magic and Shouyou is bound by his every spell, then that is no one’s problem but his own.